


things are better if i stay

by fluoxetinedreams



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Blood, Eddie Lives, Idiots in Love, Light Smut, M/M, Post-Canon, Reddie, Scars, Stitches, slow dancing to oldies, tw, tw attempted suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:40:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24917713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluoxetinedreams/pseuds/fluoxetinedreams
Summary: “I’m in love with you.”Eddie’s eyes snap up. “What?”“I’m sorry, I know it’s stupid, and that’s not why I— this isn’t your fault I just—“ He’s cut off.“I got a divorce.”Or: Richie tries (unsuccessfully) to kill himself and then moves in with a recently divorced Eddie. Feelings ensue.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 4
Kudos: 94





	things are better if i stay

**Author's Note:**

> WELL this is my first ever Reddie fic. And yes, I used MCR lyrics for the title. Beta'd by deddiespaghetti over on tumblr. thank you!  
> Anyway, this is a very BASIC Reddie fic. Just dipping my toes in the water here. But I love these doofuses so much. Please enjoy.
> 
> PLEASE HEED THE TAGS!! BIG OL TRIGGER WARNING!!
> 
> Fic art at the end!

The first thing Richie notices when he wakes up is…. well, that he’s woken up at all. The second thing he notices is how ungodly bright it is.

_ Maybe this is heaven _ , he thinks to himself. But that wouldn’t be right either. He would certainly be on the other, much darker and hotter side of the afterlife. 

Soon after the lights comes the beeping, and the sound of voices.  _ Shit _ , the internal voice starts again,  _ I’m definitely still alive. _

Richie’s third and final thought before he slips back into the sweet lull of unconsciousness is:  _ Eddie. _

  
  


~

**3 days ago**

  
  


The sun was setting beautifully behind the Hollywood sign when the thought popped into his mind. Richie was sitting on a rickety old chair that he saved from the curb in some middle-class neighbourhood. Yes, he was a grown man with his own money, and quite a bit of it, but growing up lower class had instilled things in him that he had yet to unlearn; and the chair had a certain ugliness to it that struck a chord with him. The rest of his apartment was full of old, gross thrift store finds. Richie thought it added character to his cookie-cutter apartment. And, well, ugly things suited him. As soon as he got home, he set the chair on the balcony of his apartment and smoked a blunt in it. Richie figured that that was a better way than any to christen his new find. 

That’s when the thought came to him:  _ I should off myself. _ At first he laughed, then proceeded to cough up the smoke that had lodged in his throat when he laughed. It’s not like he hadn’t considered it before. In fact, he’d be lying to himself if he said he hadn’t thought about it regularly for most of his life. The only time he can remember not thinking about it is when he was with the losers. When he was with Eddie.  _ Eddie. _

Richie groaned and put out the blunt on the railing, stashing it behind his chair for later use. If there was a later. Head falling into his hands, he took a deep breath and let his mind wander. Whenever he gave his mind free rein, it always went back to a few months ago when they’d successfully killed that fucking monster. When Eddie had narrowly avoided death. Richie still had nightmares about that. Even worse than Eddie’s brush with death, and the weeks in the hospital after (Richie never leaving his side), was that he went back to his wife. 

Richie couldn’t exactly blame him, but it still hurt. He’d spent the months following the losers’ departure from Derry beating himself up for not just telling Eddie the truth. The horrible, sickening, life-altering truth: Richie was in love with him. Had been since they were fourteen years old. Had still been even when Eddie was nothing but a hazy, barely-there memory. 

Would it have changed anything? The chances that Eddie would’ve still gone back to his wife were about 99.9%. Because it’s his  _ wife.  _

Groaning again, Richie got up and headed inside to grab a beer from the fridge. Another habit he’s picked up along with the smoking weed everyday is drinking regularly again. The last time he drank this heavily, he was in his 20’s and new to LA; doing shitty stand-up in even shittier dive bars. Leaning against the kitchen counter, he took a long swig of beer and pulled his phone out of his pants pocket. No messages. No missed calls. He laughed bitterly and took another sip of liquid joy. As if by muscle memory, his fingers punched in Eddie’s cell number and hovered over the call button. Yes, he had the number memorized by now, after so many nights of doing exactly what he was doing now: debating calling him. 

Eddie had called him a few times for the first month or so after leaving Derry for what they all hoped was the last time. They would talk about work—mainly Eddie’s job— and shoot the shit. It was nice. Richie would never admit it, but those calls were the best part of his day, week, month. The calls had stopped recently, and Richie so desperately wanted to reach out. Not like he had anything at all remotely interesting to talk about; life had been duller than usual. He’d fired his manager as soon as he got back to the city of angels and hadn’t bothered hiring another. No manager meant no gigs. It had just been months of hanging around his apartment, drinking, smoking, and filling the place with junk from thrift shops and curbs. 

_ This is definitely depression, _ Richie thought with a laugh, but did nothing but finish off his beer and grab another. Erasing Eddie’s number from the screen, Richie quickly ordered some Chinese take out and put his phone back into his pocket. He made his way to the living room and flopped himself onto the couch. Turning on the TV, he settled back, sipping generously on his drink. It was TMZ, which Richie could give less of a shit about, but before he could change the channel, he saw himself on the screen. A Getty image of him at his last gig, which had been right before Mike called him and threw his entire life into the blender. 

“Where is Richie Tozier?” Harvey said, taking a drink from one of his ever-changing water bottles. The rest of the crew laughed and began to discuss their theories. 

“Couldn’t find anyone to write him new material.” 

“Finally came out of the closest and ran away to Mexico with some tanned twink.” 

“Accidental death via auto-erotic asphyxiation; his body is still spinning around on a ceiling fan somewhere, yet to be found.” 

Everyone on screen was laughing to the point of tears. Usually Richie would be laughing too, but he just stared at the screen, the beer bottle slipping from his fingers and crashing to the floor. The glass shattered and liquid went everywhere. “Mother fucker,” Richie swore, tearing his gaze from the TV to access the mess he made. He got off the couch and began collecting shards of glass in his palm. 

“ _Fuck,”_ he hissed and looked down. Blood. He’d cut his palm open on the broken shards from the beer bottle. There’s something poetic there, but he just stared down at his hand, ripped and bleeding fast. Before he could truly react, his other hand was grabbing at the largest shard of bottle he could find. 

Richie’s mind was made up. Briefly he thought of Stan, dying alone in a bathtub in a sea of fear and his own blood. 

On screen someone said “well, wherever you are Richie, we hope you’re ok. And writing better shit.” Laughter filled Richie’s head as a river of red ran from his veins and down his arms until eventually the world went black 

~

**Now**

“Richard? Richard, can you hear me?” 

That annoying bright light is back, and Richie thinks:  _ not heaven. _ Begrudgingly, he blinks open his eyes against the harsh fluorescent lights. Standing before him is a man dressed in a white coat, holding one of those mini lights that doctors use to check your pupil dilation. 

Clearing his throat from the disuse, Richie speaks, “I think it’s bright enough in here doc, you don’t need a flashlight.” The words are scratchy and barely audible but the doctor laughs. “Very funny, Richard.” 

“Who the fuck is Richard?” Richie blinks a few more times and his vision finally adjusts to the room. The doctor—Dr. Singh— Richie notices his name tag, chuckles. “If I didn’t know who you were, Mr. Tozier, I would think we have a problem.” 

Dr. Singh does the standard ‘how many fingers am I holding up?’ and a few more basic tests before he deems Richie fit to leave the hospital. 

“Wait, that’s it? I try to kick my own bucket and I’m just free to waltz out of here?” Richie scratches around the edges of the bandages covering the entirety of his forearms. If he’s being honest, he doesn’t remember much. He remembers beer, glass, stupid Harvey from TMZ… and then… nothing. 

“No, Mr. Tozier. We’re going to need to call someone to come get you and sign you out, and then you have to be under strict supervision for several months.” Richie swears and tips his head back, running his hands through his unwashed hair. “There’s no one to call.” 

“Well, we need a number to call, or you’re not leaving.” The doctor gives him a wry smile as he folds up his stethoscope and replaces it around his neck. 

Thinking back on it later, Richie doesn’t know why he did it. He didn't know why he gave them Eddie's number. 

  
  


~

  
  


Six of the longest hours of Richie’s life later, and Eddie Kaspbrak is standing in the doorway of his hospital room looking pale and frankly, like he just got off a five hour flight. He looks perfect. 

“Hey, Eduardo,” Richie says, trying to smile, trying to break the ice, trying to make this situation a bit lighter than it is. Because it’s dark. It’s really dark. 

Eddie steps into the room and shuts the door behind him, leaning up against it. He’s still holding his luggage. “Hey.” 

“Have a seat, it’s just you and me! This is what being a celebrity gets you in a Californian hospital: a whole room to yourself and look! Not one, but _two_ chairs! Take your pick!” 

Eddie pointedly does not laugh. Doesn’t even smile. But Richie knows that Eddie knows he’s trying to be funny. That he's trying desperately to change the subject from something that hasn’t even been brought up yet but inevitably will be. Slowly, Eddie steps away from the door, drops his luggage and pulls a chair closer to the bed. He sits, adjusts his collar, coughs, and finally makes eye contact with the man in front of him. “They- they said you… they said the take out guy found you in a puddle of beer and blood.” There’s a few moments of silence and then Richie laughs. 

“It’s not funny, asshole!” Eddie yells, but the other man just keeps laughing, clutching his sides and Eddie can’t help but laugh too. If there’s one thing Richie has, it’s a damn infectious laugh, even if it does slightly resemble a dying hyena. “You couldn’t wait until _after_ the food arrived before trying to off yourself?” 

Richie howls even louder “Fuck! I don’t even remember ordering food!” 

Eddie immediately notices Richie’s bandaged wrists when the other man moves them up to wipe away his laughter-induced tears. The gauze reaches almost all the way up to his elbows and is dotted with faint lines of red. Before he can stop himself, he’s reaching out and gently grabbing Richie’s wrist. By now, Richie has stopped laughing, and he just watches curiously as the man he loves gently runs his fingers over the bandages.

Eddie speaks, voice catching on a sob, “Why?” 

Richie’s heart shatters into a thousand pieces. 

A chorus of explanations run through his head, words and phrases and pieces of puzzles that have been missing for years. He opens his mouth to tell his friend that he doesn’t know why, that maybe he does know why, to tell him  _ anything _ , but what comes out is something entirely unplanned. 

“I’m in love with you.”  _ Oh, shit. There it is. Fucking idiot. Of all the things— _

Eddie’s eyes snap up. “What?” 

“I’m sorry, I know it’s stupid, and that’s not why I— this isn’t your fault I just—“ He’s cut off.

“I got a divorce.” 

Now it’s Richie’s turn to snap his eyes up to meet Eddie’s and look at him with the stunned expression of — for lack of a better term — an animal in headlights. He doesn’t have words. Very rarely in his life can Richard Tozier say he’s been at a loss for words, but now is one of those moments. 

“Anyway,” Eddie continues, “the doctors say you can’t be alone for a few months so I was thinking… maybe you should come stay with me. In my new apartment.” 

Finally Richie closes his mouth, then opens it again to say “in New York?” 

Eddie shifts in his seat and notices his hand is still on Richie’s bandages. He withdraws his hand, wipes it on his pants, settles it on the hospital bed, and then thinks better of himself and grabs Richie’s hand instead. “Yeah. A change of scenery could be nice. Plus, what have you got here in LA? An apartment full of beer and junk?” 

“Touche.” Richie snickers and focuses on his hand in Eddie’s. How right it feels. How sweaty his palms have suddenly become, like he’s in middle school again, holding his crushes hand for the first time. Which, he supposes, is kind of true. Him and Eddie have held hands before but this feels… different. It feels full of new beginnings and promises made to be kept. He squeezes Eddie’s hand and smiles at the other man. 

“Alright. Let’s do it.” Eddie’s face brightens. “New York, get ready for Richie Tozier!” 

  
  


~

**1 day, a 5 hour flight, and a 15 minute Uber XL ride later**

  
  


“Jesus, Kaspbrak, this place is  _ swanky _ .” Richie drops his bags in the foyer and begins to wander around Eddie’s Manhattan apartment. Actually, apartment is an understatement. This place is definitely a house in the sky. There’s even a staircase. A staircase in an apartment! Richie has never seen that before, except maybe on Alec Baldwin’s instagram.

“No one says swanky anymore, dipshit,” Eddie huffs a breath as he plops down one of Richie’s boxes, “it’s _bougie_ now.” 

The other man spins on his heels to face Eddie in the doorway, “oh yeah, did you learn that from one of Alec Baldwin’s 100 children?” 

“What the fuck does that even mean?” Richie would’ve explained himself if he weren’t so busy _ooo_ ing and _aahh_ ing. 

“No offence Eds, but how can you afford this place?” Eddie shuts the door behind him and gives Richie a very  _ Eddie  _ look. “Thanks, asshole.” 

Running his hands over the mahogany bannister, Richie lets out a low whistle. “Bougie as fuck.” 

“Follow me, I’ll show you your room.” The shorter man starts up and stairs, and Richie follows suit, bag slung over his shoulder and suitcase in his hand. “I do make pretty good money,” Eddie starts, reaching the landing and turning left, “but if you must know, they filmed some shitty movie in this apartment, and no one wanted it after that.” He reaches a door and swings it open. “So I got a pretty sweet deal.”

Behind the door is a cozy looking room. There’s a comfortable looking double bed in the middle—pristinely made— and two night stands with tall lamps on top. In one corner there’s a dresser with a mirror attached, in the other corner there’s a chair and a throw blanket. It looks like something straight out of Martha Stewart’s townhome. Richie voices as much. 

“Beep beep Richie, the place came furnished.” 

Scoffing, Richie asks “what the fuck kind of movie did they film here that no one wants to live here  _ and  _ they left all this fancy shmancy furniture behind?” 

Placing one of Richie’s bags on the bed, Eddie makes a disgruntled noise, as if he really doesn’t want to answer the question, but he does. “It was a Kevin Spacey movie, alright?”

Despite himself, Richie lets out a snort. “Looks like you’re the only one in New York who wants to live somewhere that a pedophile once worked.” Eddie laughs, if not somewhat resentfully. “But, you did luck out.” Richie throws his stuff onto the ground unceremoniously and then hops onto the bed. It sinks slightly beneath him and he groans, letting his sore, stiff muscles relax. 

  
  


Eddie runs back downstairs to grab the last of Richie’s things. He returns and drops the box on the ground with a thud. “Jesus, Kaspbrak, be careful! I have valuables, you know.” 

Eddie snorts, “Oh yeah, like what?” 

“Well, let’s open ‘er up and see, shall we?” Richie hops off the bed and begins opening the box of his things. That was it, really. A suitcase, two bags, and a medium-sized box crammed full of junk. It wasn’t as hard as Richie thought it would be, saying goodbye to all his thrifted furniture. It was like leaving a piece of himself behind; a piece he no longer needed. 

The first thing Richie sees in the box makes him chuckle. “Do you trust me, Kaspbrak?” Eddie’s brows knit together, but he’s smiling when he says, “Not as far as I can throw you, Tozier.” 

“Good, close your eyes.” The shorter man puts up a fight but eventually acquiesces and shuts his eyes. Richie wastes no time in plunking the object down on Eddie’s head. The squeal he earns from Eddie makes it worth it. 

“Whaaat the fuck did you just put on my head?” Running to the mirror in the corner of the room, Eddie makes another noise similar to a squeal. It’s a ratty looking Princess Leia wig. Richie put a ratty Princess Leia wig onto his friend’s head, and he’s hunched over, almost peeing as he watches the ranges of expressions cross Eddie’s face. 

“Dude—“ Eddie rips it off and literally  _ throws  _ it across the room. “Who knows what kind of fucked up sex shit you did with that thing!” 

Richie definitely would’ve had a come back if he wasn’t laughing so hard. “Yeah, yeah, yuck it up.” Eddie pats down his hair, as if trying to get all the sex germs out of it. 

Finally coming down from the laughter high, Richie jumps back onto the bed and says, “it was a good look on you, Eds. I should’ve got a picture for the losers.” 

Giving him the Eddie look, Eddie makes his way to the door. 

“ANYWAY, asshole, I’ll leave you to it.” Eddie points, “I’m just down the hall, bathroom’s in the middle there.” Richie hums, not quite listening. “Also, I’m making you dinner tonight.” 

The man on the bed perks up at the mention of food and lifts his head to look at Eddie. “Alright, Gordon Ramsey, I won’t say no to a home cooked meal.” 

~

After a nap and a terse Zoom call with the rest of the losers (in which Richie did a rather spot on impression of the receptionist from Beetlejuice showing off her slit wrists), Richie finds himself sitting down at the dining table and being basically waited on by Eddie. 

“Eds, sit down!” Richie sticks his plastic fork into the mountain of creamy mashed potatoes on his plate as he watches an apron-clad Eddie bustle about the kitchen. As soon as Eddie had left Richie in his room earlier, it seems as though he went about the apartment hiding all the sharp objects, that included all of the silverware. So here they were, about to have a candlelit dinner with plastic fucking utensils. 

“I’m coming, fuckwad!” Eddie calls back, depositing a pot into the sink and removing his apron. Secretly, Richie wishes he’d kept it on. It was kind of hot in a Desperate Housewives sort of way. Finally, Eddie sits down across from Richie and smiles at him. “So, what do you think?” He gestured vaguely with his hands. 

Pausing with a spoonful of mash halfway to his mouth Richie asks, “think about what?” Eddie is still gesturing. “Everything. The apartment. Your room. This dinner.” 

“Well, the candles and Frank Sinatra are a bit overkill.” Richie says around a mouthful of potatoes. He has to try not to choke when he sees the wounded look the other man gives him. “What’s wrong with Frank Sinatra?” 

Trying his hardest not to laugh, Richie takes a sip of water. “Nothing, Eddie. There’s nothing wrong with Ol’ Blue Eyes. This just… well, it seems kind of… date-ish?” Now it’s Richie’s turn to gesture, but he gestures at the table and the candles and the fancy china. 

And Eddie just shrugs, taking a heaping spoonful of corn and shoving it in his mouth rather unceremoniously. “Am I not allowed to try and impress my new roomie?” It comes out muffled around all the corn, and Richie’s heart swells. Eddie really hasn’t changed at all. 

“It’s perfect, Eds.” 

Eddie beams at him and takes a drink of water from his wine glass. Richie silently thinks to himself that he wishes it was wine, but he knows why Eddie went with water. “You opened up your home to me… it— it means a lot.” 

Shrugging again, Eddie says, “Honestly, it doesn’t really feel like a home yet. But with you here, I think it will.” Richie tries not to let the words go straight to his heart, but they do; they worm their way inside and make a home there. “I— thank you, just— thank you.” 

The music playing over Eddie’s ridiculously expensive looking Bose speakers switches from Frank Sinatra to Paul Anka. Something in Eddie’s expression softens, shifts. He puts down his plastic fork and stands up, crossing the short distance over to where Richie sits, frozen, not knowing what the fuck is happening. 

Sticking out his hand, Eddie says, “dance with me.” 

All cognitive thought stops inside of Richie’s mind.  _ What? _ He’s wanted this forever. Longer than forever. Ever since they were kids and Mike found an old phonograph behind the butchers and fixed it up. Getting it down into the clubhouse had been a feat, but once it was down there Eddie would steal his Mom's old vinyls and play them for the losers. They sounded awful, but no one complained. Eddie had always looked so happy, humming along to the oldies. Richie had watched him, soft sunlight streaming through the wooden boards and catching on the flecks of gold in Eddie’s eyes. All he wanted was to get up out of the hammock, grab Eddie close, and sway to the music. 

_ Put your head on my shoulder _

_ Hold me in your arms, baby _

_ Squeeze me oh-so-tight _

_ Show me that you love me too _

Realizing that now’s his chance, Richie takes Eddie’s outstretched hand and stands. Immediately, the shorter man pulls their bodies flush together. They begin to sway back and forth. Closing his eyes, Richie savours every moment. 

_ Put your lips next to mine, dear _

_ Won't you kiss me once, baby? _

_ Just a kiss goodnight, maybe _

_ You and I will fall in love _

He feels Eddie pull back slightly, so he does too. Eddie’s looking up at him expectantly. Not letting himself read into that look, Richie quickly breaks them apart. “Dinner was great Eds.” He begins to tidy up their plates. If he notices how Eddie just stands there for a few moments too long, he doesn’t think about it. 

~

Weeks pass in domestic bliss, as Richie secretly calls it, and things are going surprisingly well. They eat dinner every night (nothing that requires the use of a steak knife… or any knives), watch movies, banter and argue like the old days; it’s nice. They don’t talk about the dancing. 

Before he knows it, it’s time to change his bandages and leave them off. The stitches should be dissolving soon. He’s busying himself with the task in their shared bathroom when Eddie walks by. It would be almost comical how he stops and does a double take if the situation were any different. 

Richie looks up and meets the other mans eyes in the mirror. “Hey, time for the bandages to go bye bye!” Eddie hums and continues watching for a few more moments. 

“Can I help?” Richie freezes at the words. Why would his best friend want to help him with this grim task? But despite his thoughts, he moves aside and lets Eddie remove the layers of gauze for him. He works in silence, focused intently on the job. 

Eddie is close. So close that Richie can smell his aftershave. It’s woodsy and minty and fuck, why is that smell alone making his knees weak?

When both arms are done, Eddie asks if they have to do anything else, and Richie hands him a warm, wet cloth. “Gotta make sure they’re clean.” Eddie nods and takes the cloth from Richie, their hands brushing. Brown eyes meet green, but neither flinch away. Before Richie can speak, the other man is looking back down at the mess of scars, dried blood, and stitches. “You never did tell me why.” He says as he begins to dab away at the grime. 

It stings, Richie hisses. “Why what?” The ministrations stop and their eyes lock again. Did Eddie get closer? His smell is driving Richie insane. Of all the times he has wanted to kiss Eddie — and there have been  _ a lot _ — he’s never wanted to more than in this moment. This exact moment. Because Eddie is gentle and open and his vulnerability is written plainly across his face. That vulnerability is quickly replaced by the famous Kaspbrak brow furrow. 

“Don’t play stupid, Richie. Why did you try to kill yourself?” The words are a slap to the face. Richie wasn’t expecting him to be so open in his phrasing, but he figures it’s what he deserves. 

Thinking on it for a few moments and biting his lip when Eddie presses down a bit too hard on a tender scar, he says “the thought came to me, and I— I went with it.” Eddie nods slowly, his face unreadable, as he moves to the sink to rinse out the cloth. The taller man watches as the water runs pink and then clear. He thinks maybe Eddie is going to drop the subject and then in a small voice, so unlike Eddie’s usual loud, overbearing tone: “Why didn’t you call me?” 

Of all the things Richie thought Eddie would say— that was definitely last on the list, and his stomach drops. “I— I didn’t want to bother you.” 

Eddie whirls around and faces him, his anger and sadness written plainly on his face. Richie braces himself for whatever is about to come next. Knowing Eddie, it won’t be pleasant. 

Before he knows what’s happening, Eddie has a handful of Richie’s shirt and is pulling him down. He pauses, their lips are a heartbeat apart, and then he tugs Richie the rest of the way down and they’re kissing. It’s soft, not much movement, like they’re both in shock— which they are. Finally Richie’s mind catches up and he breaks the kiss. “Eddie.” 

The other man pulls back enough to look into Richie’s eyes, confusion written plainly across his features, as well as something that Richie thinks might be frustration. 

“Eddie,” he repeats “Please. I can’t do this if— if you don’t mean it. I won’t be an experiment to you. I can’t.” 

Letting his hands unfurl from Richie’s shirt, Eddie takes several steps back. He looks into Richie’s eyes with that intense stare that only Eddie Kaspbrak is capable of. The one that lets you know how mad he is; how badly you must’ve fucked up. 

Maybe Richie was wrong. Maybe Eddie wanted this too? But, he wasn’t gay. Hadn’t Eddie always liked girls? Searching his mind for any recollection of Eddie having a crush on a girl when they were kids, he comes up blank. But by then it’s too late. Eddie is backing away further, nodding his head. “Ok, Rich. Ok.” 

“Eds—“ but Eddie throws up his hands and turns to walk out of the bathroom. “No, it’s ok. I get it.” 

“Don’t fucking do that Eddie. I told you I loved you, and you didn’t say anything. That was weeks ago and we haven’t even spoken about it!” 

Spinning on his heel, Eddie whirls back around and marches back into Richie’s space and sticks a finger in his chest. If Richie weren’t fuming, he would think it’s the cutest and hottest thing he’s ever seen. “You think you’re the only one with feelings here? Did you ever stop and think that maybe— that maybe I love you too?” 

Richie opens his mouth to retort but shuts it again. He’s stunned. Eddie waits patiently, breathing heavily. “But you’re not gay.”  _ That’s all you can say, Richie? You idiot.  _

The shorter man sighs and runs his hands through his hair, “I don’t know if I am. I’ve been having a bit of a midlife crisis.” 

_ A midlife crisis! At forty fucking years old? _

“So I  _ am  _ just an experiment to you?”

“What? No— Rich— no, it’s not…. I don’t know.” 

Now it’s Richie’s turn to angrily walk away, pushing past Eddie on his way out of the bathroom. He can’t believe he just let Eddie kiss him. Their  _ first kiss _ . Just for Eddie to figure out something he should’ve known 30 years ago!

“Rich—“

Richie throws up a dismissive hand. “Let me know when you’ve figured it out.” And he walks to his room, slamming the door behind him.

_Just like a fucking teenager,_ he thinks bitterly. Richie debates going back out there, to apologize or throw Eddie against the wall and say fuck it, I’ll be an experiment. Then he hears Eddie’s own door slam. Fine, let them both be overly emotional teenagers who can’t talk about their problems. 

Richie throws himself onto his bed and falls into a fitful sleep. 

  
  


~

  
  


_ bang bang bang _

Richie awakes with a start. There’s someone banging on his door. Banging, not knocking.  _ This fucking guy. _

He gets out of bed, tossing the covers off angrily and stomps to the door. Throwing it open, he’s prepared to voice all sorts of not-so-nice words, but they die on his lips when he sees Eddie’s face. Eddie looks… broken— lost. 

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Can I come in?” 

Richie moves aside and lets Eddie into his room, like this isn’t Eddie’s apartment and he can do whatever he wants in his own home. As soon as Richie has shut the door, Eddie is crowding into his space, forcing Richie’s back up against the door. 

“Eds—“ he begins, not wanting a repeat of earlier. 

“No. For once in your life, Trashmouth, shut up.” 

Richie is not a stupid man, so he does what he is told. 

“I haven’t slept,” Eddie begins, “all I can think about is you. And then I realized, all I’ve ever been able to think about is you. Even when I couldn’t remember you, I was thinking about you. I saw your comedy specials—if you can even call them special—and I knew that I knew you. Then I saw you at that restaurant… everything came back. You’re on my mind even more now, you piece of shit. You drive me insane. I can’t believe I invited you to come live with me.” He stops, takes a breath, gets even closer to Richie and slips his hands behind the taller mans neck, winding his fingers into his hair. Richie gasps, tries to speak. 

“Shut up, I’m not done.” Richie closes his mouth. 

“I’m happy. I’m fucking happy. I can’t remember the last time I was happy, but I suppose being in a loveless marriage will do that to you. But do you know why it was loveless?” 

“Because you married your mother?” Offers Richie. 

“Shut up, Tozier!” Eddie presses his hips against Richie’s, pressing his back harder into the door. “It was loveless, because I’m gay. It was loveless because the entire time, I was in love with someone else. Someone who I forgot existed, but didn’t really forget. Because I  _ longed _ for you. I—“ he quiets down, “I  _ dreamt  _ about you.” 

“Eddie—“ 

“WHAT?!” 

Richie grabs Eddie by the neck and surges down, connecting their lips in a devastating kiss. It’s all teeth and tongues, and Eddie is still trying to talk. 

“Eds— Eddie, baby. Shut up.” Richie rasps, trying not the break the kiss and Eddie  _ moans.  _ He listens to Richie and lets himself be thoroughly kissed. 

Grabbing on to Eddie’s hips, Richie spins them around and pins Eddie to the door, slotting their hips deliciously together. They’re both wearing boxers, which don’t do much to hide their growing arousals. 

“Eds,” Richie begins between kisses. “I’m happy too. You make me happy.” Eddie makes a strangled sound as he pushes Richie gently back until they’re falling against the bed. He takes both of Richie’s wrist in his hands and slowly, one at a time, brings them up to his lips to place soft kisses down the lines of his scars. A broken sob leaves Richie’s lips and his eyes fill with tears. Eddie looks at him, his eyes filled with unshed tears too. “Please don’t hurt yourself again.” 

Leaning down to slot his lips with Eddie’s again, Richie says, “I won’t, baby. I won’t. You saved me.” Letting his tears fall, Eddie sobs and pulls Richie impossibly closer until they’re laying side by side, barely an inch of space between their bodies. 

“You’re my best fucking friend Rich, I love you. I want you. I’ve only ever wanted you, please —“ he grunts as Richie nips at his pulse point and places hot kisses down his neck. Fisting his hands into Richie’s hair, Eddie flips them over so he can straddle Richie’s hips. They kiss with reckless abandon, their hands exploring each others bodies. All the wasted years, lingering touches, playful jabs in the hammock, it’s all coming out now. Every touch they ever wanted to give to the other, every unspoken  _ I love you _ . They write out the words across one another’s skin with their hands and lips. 

Richie’s hands come up to rest on Eddie’s hips, right at the hem of his boxers. He tucks his thumbs into the sides and breaks the kiss to ask, “is this ok?” Eddie nods fervently. “Yes— Richie,  _ fuck,  _ please touch me—“ 

“I’ve got you, baby.” And in a single motion, Richie tugs Eddie’s boxers down and gets his hand around him. Eddie hisses and sobs, burying his face in the other man's neck. Quicker than he has time to process, Eddie is tugging down Richie’s boxers too, and taking them both into his hand, stroking them together. With a broken off moan, Richie’s head falls back onto the mattress. “Holy shit, Eddie.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Fuck, yeah.” 

It doesn’t take long for the tightness in the bottom of Richie’s stomach to take over his entire body, and he finishes, panting a string of curses and Eddie’s name over and over. Eddie’s release isn’t far behind, and he spills into his hand and on Richie’s stomach. Leaning down, Eddie rests his forehead on Richie’s and gives him a searing kiss. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.” 

“I bet I’ve wanted to do it for longer than you have.” Richie says, and grabs Eddie’s hips, lifting him off and grabbing the nearest shirt off the floor so he can clean them up. Humming contentedly, Eddie lets himself be wiped down, and Richie’s surprised that he doesn’t complain about the fact that he’s using a dirty t-shirt to do it. 

They settle down under the blankets, and Eddie pulls Richie close. Not being one to say no to cuddling, Richie rests his head on the other man’s chest, listening to his breathing and steady heartbeat. He doesn’t notice when the tears begin to fall. This is everything he has ever wanted and his emotions have just caught up to him. 

“Hey, Rich,” Eddie runs his hands through Richie’s hair. “We’re ok. You’re ok.” 

Richie lets the feeling of Eddie’s hands and his soothing words lull him into a deep sleep. 

~

The sun shines brightly through the gap in the curtains, directly hitting Richie in the eyes. He awakens softly, wiping the drool from the corner of his mouth. There’s a soft click, and he opens his eyes to see Eddie’s phone in his face. “What the fuck man, not cool! You're even creepier than Edward Cullen.” 

Eddie just laughs and sends the picture of a drooling, peaceful Richie to the losers’ group chat. “Oh, shut up. This is payback, Han Solo.” 

Richie just sighs and pulls Eddie closer, nuzzling into his neck. “S’okay, I forgive you. You gave me the best sleep i’ve had in months.” 

“I’m glad to hear it.” Eddie yawns and puts his phone back on the bedside table. When he turns back around, Richie wastes no time in slotting their lips together and fisting his hands into Eddie’s hair. Eddie grumbles something about morning breath but quickly shuts up when Richie deepens the kiss. Soon, they’re rutting against each other like two love sick teenagers trying to rush before their parents get home. 

“Can I— Eds, baby, fuck, can I blow you?” The noise that Eddie makes once those words are out of Richie’s mouth is one that Richie wishes he could bottle up and save for a rainy day. Eddie nods so hard he accidentally bashes their heads together. They giggle at each other, and Richie begins kissing his way down Eddie’s naked body. 

“Fuck, Rich— Richie, ahh—“ Eddie gasps as Richie takes him in his mouth. It doesn’t take long before Eddie is an absolute mess, swearing and grabbing Richie’s hair and fucking up into his mouth. Richie just moans, sending vibrations up the other man’s body until he’s cumming across Richie’s tongue. 

“Fuck, holy  _ shit.  _ That was — I haven’t had one of those — Jesus  _ christ. _ ” Richie just laughs and climbs back up to curl his body around Eddie’s. “That good, huh?” 

“Not that you need the ego boost, but it was so good that I’m making you breakfast!” After a few more minutes of kissing and cuddling, Eddie gets out of bed, throws on his boxers and one of Richie’s shirts (Richie takes a sneaky picture) and heads downstairs to make the promised post-mindblowing-blowjob-breakfast. 

~

Richie is researching the best therapists and psychiatrists in New York when Eddie bursts into the room carrying a breakfast-in-bed tray and belting Angel of the Morning at the top of his lungs. Richie throws his head back and laughs, which only results in Eddie singing louder and much, much worse. Smiling up at the love of his life, Richie accepts the breakfast tray, complete with a smiley face made of eggs and bacon, Eddie even included a flower in a tiny vase. It’s so fucking Martha Stewart, but this time he doesn’t say anything. He just smiles at Eddie and digs in. 

And Richie just knows. He knows that Eddie is right. He’s ok. They’re ok. 

**Author's Note:**

> idrawstuffyall over on tumblr made the art of Eddie in a Princess Leia wig!! Go follow them for more awesome Reddie art!
> 
> Please leave me comments, constructive crit welcome! 
> 
> I'm on tumblr too: balsamicvinregret


End file.
